Great Men
by Linwe Mithrandir
Summary: "He had a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world."


Great Men

Many of our hearts have been tugged at by that singular, tragic tale of pure terror and pure love. It was too many years ago to count and yet still we are overcome with moments of complete and earnest grief (even if fear is intermingled with it) for that of poor, unhappy Erik and his poor, unhappy life. A life that no one quite knows - perhaps even himself. There were many things he knew that he would have rather not known and many things his worthy lion's heart was undeservingly burdened with. For make no mistake, it was the heart of a lion - arguably the greatest this world has never known. It had the capability of becoming the heart of the Emperor of the World, and a revolutionary, ingenious, brilliant mastermind of an Emperor at that. He'd have been brighter than the stars! He would have blinded the Greats: Figchen, Alexander, Ivan - all of them at once with his pure, effervescent radiance. Oh, he'd have made Caesar and Hatsheput and Charlemagne weep with shame at their utter incompetence and foolery. He would have made idiots of the very best of the best in all things - there is no doubt that with his bare hands he would have built the greatest kingdom to ever exist in the whole of time.

What is most pitiful is that he knew it and I daresay there was a point when he would've gladly given it all away - his radiance, his brilliance, his phenomenal talents, his heart, all of it... if only to simply be a man.

I am certain that towards the end his lion's heart ached for nothing more than at least the very minimum of what it could've borne. It asked not for crusades but for walks on Sunday mornings, not for a queen but for a gentle, soft wife, not for an empire but for a regular apartment with regular doors and regular windows - oh windows, sweet windows that would let light pour in from the sun. It asked for at least to be granted the _sun_. But that sad heart with the makings of a proud and illustrious lord had to content itself with the darkness of a cellar... and it's quite likely it shattered underneath all of its lost, twisted dreams.

In short, he wanted to retire. And not just from his greatness but from everything that he was - I suspect this is partly why he was constantly coming up with different personas such as Erik. Oh. Did you think that his real name? Well, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. He'd been known by it for a time, this much is true. But he'd been known by many other names - as is wont by great men (they often make a few names for themselves). There's a very good chance he didn't even remember his real name (perhaps it was something quite French and simple like Henri or Hugo or perhaps it was something far more symbolic and weighty like Drogo or Dreux - but who other than God and the unlucky souls present at his birth truly know) - a smaller but still possible chance was that he was never given a name by his terror-stricken mother.

In any case, it's interesting that the name 'Erik' is notably Scandinavian in origin (as was his object of obsession, Christine Daaé - or as she is now generally known, Christine de Chagny) and it's most often associated with various Swedish and Norwegian rulers. As a result, it's come to commonly mean, "Ruler of the People." Yet, when broken down it also means "alone," "eternal," and "powerful" - all things that well describe our poor phantom. As mentioned before, there is no doubt in my mind that Erik knew he was as extraordinary as he was... but that he was also very aware of how mad he was, and how utterly alone he was, and how much his brilliance was wasted five cellars beneath the Opéra Garnier. It makes sense for him to feel connected to this equally magnificent, ambitious, and lonely name (whether or not he had chosen it himself or if it was chosen for him by some odd accident). Power for the price of companionship and normalcy and humanity. There's an account that was made long ago by a Mohammed Ismaël Khan (though for the sake of brevity we shall henceforth simply refer to him as M. Khan) - apparently a man that became as acquainted as anyone can claim to be to the Phantom of the Opera while serving as the chief of police for the Shah of Persia. This account features a discussion between M. Khan and Erik himself on the subject of Erik's great potential. Here it is, translated from the French, word for word for your perusal:

"I and anyone else who had ever met with Erik had to know that he was one of the most powerful men to walk the earth. I recall he once told me something, very long ago - I will not say how long - but long enough. I'd always thought of myself as some sort of guardian to him... he was constantly running about and causing mischief and I was constantly following him around to get him out of it (I could rarely stop him, I was usually left to clean up whatever mess he'd made).

I remember at one point, after some unpleasant business with a few of my own poor officers, I'd berated him which led to various threats on both parts which led to a tussle (I have no doubt he could've killed me at any chosen moment, I think after the two years we'd known each other he had actually - to his dismay, of course - developed a soft spot for me) which then led to one of the first real conversations I'd ever had with him.

Do not misunderstand me, he enjoyed talking, but he was a clever talker and would never answer a question he didn't really want to. He was so adept with digression that I think it's safe to say he made it into an art form. But I do recall that after we had had a few moments to calm down, I invited him to have a drink with me. This was not an unusual request, every week or so I'd share some of my collection of spirits with him... he was quite fond of these evenings, if I'd interpreted correctly, though he never took more than one or two glasses - perhaps it was the civil company he was more partial to? Or some mixture of the two? He'd deny that, I'm sure. It was a very quiet evening, and Erik had seemed congenial enough. And for whatever reason, I was feeling very bold and curious and found myself asking as I peered at his awful face (some days he would wear a mask, and other days he would not - I would never grow accustomed to its ugliness, but I was not afraid of it), 'Were you born this way?'

'Whatever do you mean, _daroga_?' He never called me Ismaël - even if I had insisted I don't think he would have. It was such a personal thing… perhaps he needed to remind himself that I was affiliated with the police and therefore could never be trusted and probably should never be considered 'friend.' But when have rules (even his own) ever stopped him from getting something he wanted before?

'Were you born looking...'

'As ugly as death itself?'

'Yes.'

'Yes.'

I had been unbelievably shocked at such a straightforward answer! If I had asked something as simple as 'is the sun in the sky in the middle of the afternoon?' he would've given no less than a riddle bewildering enough to make me want to throw myself off a cliff. I took this answer as encouragement.

'Have you ever wondered why?'

'What a silly thing to ask, _daroga_, sometimes I _wonder_ if anything at all goes on in that head underneath that odd hat of yours.'

'My hat is not odd, it is the very height of fashion."

'It was probably shaved off a sheep's bottom.'

'Probably. You still haven't answered my question.'

For a long while it was quiet again - I suspected it would end that way, it always did. I wasn't offended really... well, perhaps I was a bit miffed at the cheap shot taken at my hat but for his silence at answering my question I did not blame him. It was wrong of me to be so blatant and unprofessional. Such a mind as critical and sharp as mine should have known better than to try to dig into the mystery that was his horrible face. But I was astonished once more when he suddenly spoke up. His voice was very weary and soft (this was often far more foreboding than it was heartening, for it could've meant that he was at the end of his rope, that he was bored, that he was about to try to manipulate you... it rarely signified that anything good was going to happen).

'They say, _daroga_, that Providence cuts down great men before they can destroy whatever great things they have created. Take Henry V as an example - he almost conquered France! He achieved a miracle at the Battle of Agincourt and after he had it all in his hands** -** when it was negotiated and settled that everything he and his kingdom had ever dreamed of would be his, God struck him (and subsequently the British Empire) down! Ironic, isn't it? Almost amusing enough to laugh.' And here he chuckled in a truly dark and dreadful manner - I steeled myself for anything.

'Are you listening?' Before I could respond he continued, 'What am I saying? Of course you are! The Great and Distinguished _Daroga_ is always _listening_ \- though not like Erik, I tell you. Not like how I can hear. You should keep that in mind when you listen, _daroga_.'

He was very suspicious and rightly so. I was, in fact, a spy for the Shah... it was my duty to know everything and anything Erik was involved with. I don't think I did a very good job at it. I'm not sure anyone could have done a good job at it, not even Erik himself. Naturally, he was well aware of the fact that I was ordered to keep an eye on him; how he knew I'm not sure... there are plenty of ways his clever mind could have guessed it. He probably just assumed immediately - he was never a very trusting man. Yet we had settled on an unspoken agreement to never speak of my job… much less his own work.

'Hm, the _Great Daroga_ indeed." He snickered, 'Don't be too great, of course, you may find yourself falling - falling - _falling_, quite like the Star of England. This is why, _daroga_.'

'What is?'

'Do not interrupt, it's appallingly rude.'

I remember daring to roll my eyes at that, considering that Erik was a master at interruptions. The stories I could tell you… but those are for another day.

At last, he breathed a heavy sigh, 'I suspect Providence cut me down before I could do anything truly noteworthy at all. I died in my mother's womb. You are well aware that I was once gloriously dubbed The Living Death and what a _worthy_ title it was! I am dead but alive, _daroga_. Who knows what I could have accomplished? It makes you question how wretched the destruction would've been. For if I was the great man I was destined to be, I would be the _greatest_... and so would my fall. Heaven could not have let that happen - but perhaps I was such a magnificent specimen of the mind and heart that Heaven could not bring itself to simply let me die... so I was spared. Or perhaps I am being punished for sins I would've committed while alive - this is some sort of purgatory, an Eternal Death - I shall go on forever; beyond the Edge of Time itself! Never to enter either the gates of Heaven or of Hell. And perhaps that is for the best! For I know I would undoubtedly be sent to the Underworld now - maybe even overthrow Hades and be made King! King of the Dead! Oh, and would I not look the part!' Then he laughed: a mad, broken cackle which seemed to slip into an even more terrorizing sound: heartbroken, uncontrollable wails. I could do nothing but stare, terrified by that ghastly face as it twisted and distorted further, even when he stopped (as if nothing had been said or happened at all) all I could find it within myself was to stare until he stood and left."

* * *

*_Saint Drogo (also known as Drugo, Dreux, or Droun) was a Flemish noble orphaned at birth. At some point in his life Drogo was stricken with an illness that made him physically repulsive. He was often met with ridicule and cruelty and so he built a hut in Sebourg, France and stayed there as a hermit (and shepherd) until the day he died. He is a French saint and although a patron of shepherds, he is primarily a patron for those who are deemed ugly, deformed, ill, or suffering from any sort of disability (he is also, curiously, a patron of coffee)._

**Author's Note: This is something I wrote real quick while half-asleep and suddenly struck with inspiration. It's a bit sad, I don't often write sad things... so I don't know if I'll just leave it here... I personally don't feel like it's finished yet. But this is what I have for now. I'm using mostly Leroux and my own headcanons/ideas for this (e.g. the Daroga's name is Mohammed Ismaël Khan after the individual that he's based on). I'm dabbling in working within the confines of Leroux's world - I should like to try to write a "happily ever after" for Erik, I'm just _currently_ unsure of how to go about doing so. At this point, the author believes that Erik is dead. And perhaps, in many ways, he really is. We'll just have to see where this goes! I make no promises that it'll go anywhere! But I would truly like it to.  
**


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